Corset in Congress (A Hamilton Genderbend)

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Burn

Elijah's POV

In my hands I hold a bottle of whisky, a pile of your letters, a reminder of your betrayal. Phillip came home yesterday and nearly had a breakdown, because of what you did. Was I not enough? Were we not enough?

I take another drink, feeling the alcohol burn a path through my system, spreading a superficial warmth, one I thought could help me, but it can't erase the pain. Gazing wistfully out the window, I see the stars, gleaming brightly, despite the chaos, and it's inspiring. But then I look down and see the destruction of our yard, our home, and my heart falls, and I slide to the floor, a sobbing mess.

"I saved every letter you wrote me," I whisper, my fingers tracing the creases and folds in the papers, the smell of ink and parchment drowned by the stench of whisky. My voice breaks, and I can't continue to speak. From the moment I read them, I knew you were mine. You said you were mine. I thought you were mine.

Do you know what Angelica said when we saw your first letter arrive? I ask you, even though you're not actually here, and you'll never be able to comprehend how terribly you've hurt me.

She said, "Be careful with that one, love. She will do what it takes to survive."

And at the time, I didn't know what that meant, or maybe I did, but I just refused to acknowledge it. Instead I plunged right into a relationship, too blinded by love to think of the consequences.

You and your words flooded my senses. Your sentences left me defenceless. You built me palaces out of paragraphs; you built cathedrals.

Shaking, my hands open letters left and right, taken over by a mad desire for closure. I'm re-reading the letters you wrote me. I'm searching and scanning for answers in every line, for some kind of sign, and when you were mine, the world seemed to burn.

We burned with that passion, the love, the fire that was us, that defined every waking moment of our lives. That ruled how we lived, how we thought, how we acted. Or, at least, it did for me. I'm starting to see that we have differing viewpoints on the responsibilities that come with marriage, with a family.

You published the letters she wrote you. Yes, I know it was a she. You pretended it was James, but I know it was Maria. You broke my heart for another woman, and that hurts more than you can possibly know. You told the whole world how you brought this girl into our bed, and in clearing your name, you have ruined our lives.

Do you know what Angelica said when she read what you'd done? She said, "You have married an Icarus. She has flown too close to the sun."

And that's all very well and good, but that's not what you've done. That makes it sound like you had good intentions, like all should have gone well. Like you weren't supposed to get caught, but oh well! I'll have you know that I'm not as kind as my sister now that you've ruined everything.

What you did was take what we had, a perfectly fine, respectable marriage with a wonderful, happy family, and turned it into an ugly reminder of everything that went wrong. And you were never home, and our children missed you and asked for you constantly, but they never hated you before. I never hated you before. You've traded your entire family for a few passionate nights with that woman.

You and your words, obsessed with your legacy! Your sentences border on senseless, and you are paranoid in every paragraph, how they perceive you...

You, you, you... 

Because it's always about you. Never anyone else, only you. Suddenly, an idea seizes me.

I'm erasing myself from the narrative. Let future historians wonder how Elijah reacted when you broke his heart. You've torn it all apart, I'm watching it burn!

An uncontrollable rage comes upon me, and I grab the bundle of letters, the bundle of lies, and the candle standing on the table. I light the papers up right there, not caring if the entire house goes up in flames. I watch the ink sizzle and splatter, washing away the lies, washing away you. Watching it burn.

I drop the letters into the bucket that's being used to collect leaks when it rains. I was supposed to fix it, but it's hard when you have to raise your children, teach them, deal with your wife, and do all the maintenance. It's enough to drive a man mad!

The world has no right to my heart! Even though you already told the world all about yours, and is seems I don't have a place in it. The world has no place in our bed! They don't get to know what I said! I'm burning the memories, burning the letters, that might have redeemed you!

You forfeit all rights to my heart! To be honest, I don't know why I gave you so much power in the first place, why I let you walk all over me. You forfeit the place in our bed! You sleep in your office instead! Because you love your work more than all of us, I doubt you'll mind much. With only the memories of when you were mine!

"I hope that you burn," I whisper, watching the flames lick at the tin, casting eerie shadows and strange lights flickering throughout the room. I fall back against the wall, angry tears and sad tears forming simultaneously. And as I sink further and further into despair, the whisky bottle slowly empties itself into my stomach, a pathetic attempt to ease the nagging sense that it's all my fault, that I'm not enough. 

Even though I know I've done everything I can, you still find a way to make me doubt myself, to make me feel like I'm in the wrong, that I'm worthless, that everything I am is a mistake.

And if I'm being honest, that hurts more than your affair, your lies.